4. Nixon

Chapter four

Nixon

I ’m groggy when a soft knock raps on my bedroom door.

Groaning, I reach up to hold my sore head and rumble out a reply.

The door cracks open a couple of inches, and Lincoln’s bulky frame appears in silhouette. “You dead in there, Nixy?”

“Very funny,” I mutter.

“Hey. At the rate you’re going, the chances of you being dead are about as good as they are of you being alive.”

Sadly, I can’t dispute my roommate’s words. “Tossing the pork in the air and trying to catch it in my mouth was a grave mistake, but fortunately, I was able to dig myself out of it.”

“ Ugh . Dear lord, save me from his puns. Especially when the outcome of his misadventure could have been so much worse.”

That makes me crack a small smile, and I roll over only to land on the warm and squishy bag of peas I’d apparently used as an ice pack. “Gross.” I snag the bag, dropping it over the side of my bed.

Lincoln chuckles and takes that opportunity to come inside. Living in a shared unit with four bedrooms, one common area, one kitchen, and one bathroom, our bedrooms are tiny; my childhood bedroom was easily twice the size of my room now. But the place is mine, and Linc is one of my better friends, so I don’t even care that his hulking body takes up half my room.

“You’re a piece of work, Nix. How are you feeling?” he asks. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a Nike T-shirt that would probably fit a normal human but on him looks two sizes too small.

“Okay, all things considered,” I reply, ignoring the throbbing in my head.

Lincoln squints at me and hums knowingly, then turns on his heels and disappears back out into the hallway. From the sounds of it, he’s tromping to our bathroom. He returns a moment later and holds out his hand. “Take these.”

“Sweet angel of mercy, bless you.” That makes Linc snicker, and when I take the pills dry, he only crinkles his nose a little. Eh. I’ve learned to make the best of what I have on hand.

But my angel comment triggers a spark of memory. A hooded man standing on my fire escape. Looking over, there’s obviously no one there now, but was there really a man out there last night? And right when I was on death’s door? I’ve had enough concussions and bumps on the head to know I don’t always remember things clearly afterward. Was I hallucinating?

“What?” Linc asks, following my line of sight. “Too bright? Want me to throw a blanket over the window?”

“Nah. I can deal. I think I’m only mildly concussed.” But still, I squint toward the window.

“Only mildly concussed. I’m not at all surprised you can self-diagnose at this point. How many times have you nearly died? Twenty? Thirty? Remind me, I’ve lost count.”

“Last night makes twelve,” I answer, though that’s probably not accurate, since I’m sure there were several close calls in there that could have been worse if not for the quick thinking of my parents or other more responsible parties getting involved.

“Jesus, bro. You have a running tally somewhere? It was a joke, Nixon. The fact that you’ve nearly died twelve times and are still walking this earth is some freaky shit.”

“Yeah.” But now my thoughts are stuck replaying every time I’ve nearly died, or at least the times I can remember. There are two events I prefer not to relive simply due to past trauma, but the rest? There’s a weird niggle of something in the back of my mind. Like I’m trying to remember something I was going to say, but I get off topic and the thought vanishes. Like the perfect word that’s just out of reach or a sneeze that never materializes.

This strange realization is an itch I cannot scratch.

When I was in my teens, there wasn’t much to do in our small town, so I would go biking—or eventually, driving—with my friends and we’d do all sorts of stupid shit. I was probably twelve when I fell out of a huge oak tree my friends dared me to climb—broken collarbone and left arm, including stitches in a couple of places. Then, when I was fourteen, it was a jump off a bridge that ran over the river we all liked to swim in during the summer—belly flop that knocked the wind out of me, and I nearly drowned because I couldn’t breathe.

Fifteen and we’d taken a matching pair of old recliners we’d found next to a dumpster and loaded them into my buddy’s pickup. He drove us up to the foothills, and we raced each other down the hill in the chairs, strapping ourselves in with ratchet straps, using them like seat belts. I don’t recall nearly dying, but I know I ended up in the ER with lacerations, deep bruising all along my ribs and hips, and a dislocated shoulder.

When I was nearly seventeen, I thought we were invincible. There was an abandoned house in the woods outside of town that was rumored to be haunted by a witch. In Connecticut, practically everything is rumored to be haunted, but a friend of a friend had seen something in the shadows. My bestie at the time, a girl named Cami, was really into ghosts and Ouija boards and tarot cards, so I drove us there.

The way I remember that night is kind of like that scene from The Blair Witch Project where the college kids are running through the forest with their camcorder and there are sounds and it’s dark and they get separated. The camera is so shaky it’s a little nauseating to watch and really hard to follow.

There was a storm that night that neither of us knew was coming, so while we were out there, traipsing down the “path” that we could only just make out, the wind kicked in and so did a thunderstorm. Being young and stupid, we chose to make a mad dash to the dilapidated house since we were closer to it than my car.

I remember scrambling over rotting wet logs, slipping on sopping piles of dead leaves, and the crack of lightning looming just over our shoulders. I do not recall tripping over roots or hitting my head on a rock, but I do remember waking up to Cami crying and dragging me through the open doorway to the scariest structure I’d ever been in.

If I hadn’t nearly died of a cracked skull, I’m sure I would have died of fright.

We were each grounded for a month after that, and I stopped hanging out with Cami, who had changed her wardrobe to nearly all-black clothing and taken up an interest in witchcraft because she claimed I was saved by the witch of Knifeshop Road.

After that, I took up indoor hobbies, wondering if perhaps my parents weren’t right all along about me not surviving to adulthood.

Still, there’s something in all of those events that sits like a lost memory, a feeling I can’t place or even name. But there is one thing about the odd lost niggle that I can say with certainty: it’s familiar. And that in itself brings me a measure of comfort.

Sure, I may have nearly died a few times, but who hasn’t had a brush with death?

And maybe it’s weird to think about my near-death experiences as being comforting, but that’s better than fearing the world, right? I’m not sitting in a dark room rocking away because I’m scared to live for fear of dying. Am I?

“Well, I just wanted to check on you,” Linc says after I don’t know how long. I was lost in thought, and he was probably just standing there awkwardly thinking my brain must really be damaged. I think back to the man I hallucinated out on my fire escape. Maybe my brain really is damaged.

“Yeah. Thanks. I think I’m going to lie low today. Try not to get into trouble.”

Linc looks unconvinced but nods anyway. “Probably a good idea. The guys and I are going down to play hoops, but I’ll be around if you need anything. I think Curtis is home today too.”

I groan and bury my face in my pillow, but I can still hear Linc’s laugh.

“I’ll make sure he wears his headphones,” he says.

“That doesn’t help much when he’s screaming ‘Die, die, die!’ and ‘You can’t hide from me, motherfucker!’ all day long.”

Shrugging consolingly since we both know this is Curtis’s house too, Linc only pats my foot. “I’ll see what I can do. If it gets too bad, maybe you can walk over to campus and hang in the library lounge for a few hours. It’s quiet, and I know you love it there.”

I nod in consideration. I probably wouldn’t get hurt walking to campus. I mean, I make that round trip sometimes three times a day if the weather is nice. “Maybe. Have fun with the guys. Depending on how I feel, you want to grab dinner at Vinny’s tonight?”

The one and only time Linc and I hooked up we were both extremely drunk, and he’d just confessed he was bi. He later admitted he’d planned on us both getting shitfaced so he could work up the courage to tell me. Neither of us had planned what happened after we stumbled into the apartment later that night. He damn well knows my dinner invite tonight is strictly platonic.

“Sure, man. Sounds good. I’m going to bounce. Don’t forget to rest and hydrate.” He smirks at me over his shoulder as he leaves my room and quietly pulls the door closed behind him. At six-two with golden-brown skin and firm muscles in all the right places, Linc is definitely a fine specimen. But he’s someone else’s specimen.

I shudder at the fuzzy memory of that epic disaster.

Snatching up my phone, I shoot off a quick text to my mom, briefly explaining the events of the previous night, and then make a slow but mad dash for the shower before my mom’s reply can come through. I know she’s only going to worry and probably insist I see a doctor, but I know I’d feel guilty if I didn’t tell her eventually. Might as well get it over with so I can use the “I’m recuperating” card and get a less pointed talking to.

I grab my bathroom caddy, an annoying but necessary tool, and before I can stop myself, I step over to my window and peer outside. In the light of a new day, it suddenly dawns on me that the fourth floor is actually pretty high up since our floor numbers actually begin on the second floor because there’s a Subway on the ground level. For there to have been a man out here last night is really fucking creepy. Like, of all the apartments in the whole of Manhattan, why was this guy peeping into mine?

And why, of all nights, was he there when I was moments from death? And at that exact time? I’m wigged out over the coincidence.

Taking one last glance at the fire escape, the sidewalk and street below, and the neighborhood in general, I finally decide a hot shower is the perfect way to relax and let my swirling thoughts wash away.

I just need to pamper myself a little bit, have some lukewarm coffee, and I’ll be feeling better in no time.